


Real

by xylodemon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comment Fic, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-12
Updated: 2004-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Hermione reflects on her two boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Real

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katertotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katertotter/gifts).



> Written for [](http://chuffing.livejournal.com/profile)[**chuffing**](http://chuffing.livejournal.com/), in the comments of her journal.

Hermione knows, without a doubt, that she is the luckiest girl in the world.

Harry is brave and courageous and kind, and beautiful in a precious and fragile kind of way. She knows its incongruous to think of the Hero of the Wizarding World as fragile or precious, but that is exactly what he is, especially compared to Ron. Harry finally grew into his body around fourth year, but he his still thin and wiry, and likely always will be. His glasses make him look vulnerable, maybe because they are too big and owlish for his face. He seems almost childlike in those specs, in a way that is absolutely charming.

He has the softest hair Hermione has ever touched. She knows no one would believe her if she told them, for all it looks like Harry has a porcupine on his head. Harry's hair is spiky and unruly, and Hermione had thought it would be course and rough when she touched it, but then she did, and it slipped through her fingers like silk.

She's touching that hair now, as she lays in Harry's bed, her fingers lost in the soft curls at the base of his neck.

Ron is honest and loyal and strong. He is positively handsome, in an adult way that is completely different from Harry. He didn't grow into his body until the beginning of fifth year, but it was definitely worth the wait. He's tall now, taller than Harry, and has filled out in the shoulders and chest in a way that Harry probably never will, because of Harry's early, horrible and malnourished years.

His hands are broad and strong and callused from his stint as the Gryffindor Keeper, but Hermione thinks they are magic. They are unexpectedly gentle and soothing, and they make her warm and fluttery when he runs them over her skin.

One of those hands is on her now, as he lays behind her, his fingers splayed across the curve of her hip.

Just then, she is perfect, warm and protected in the press of their bodies and the cage of their arms.

She laughs when she thinks of how long it took to get them to this point. Looking back, the answer to their confused and muddled feelings and reactions to each other had been obvious all along. They had all known what was going on, somewhere deep down, but neither of them had wanted to be the one to rock their precarious, incomplete, and strangely frustrated boat.

They had always had the tendency to gravitate towards each other; in all things, and in all situations. They ate together, studied together, and traipsed around Hogsmeade together. In their leisure time, they would sit on the couch of the common room together, packed so closely their legs were touching.

The other residents of Gryffindor would purse their lips and roll their eyes at them, well aware of what the three of them had been too blind or scared to see.

One night, Harry had a nightmare, and had crawled into bed with Ron when it woke him. She found them like that, when she went to wake them in the morning, sleeping soundly and peacefully, their arms wrapped around each other.

There had been a space between them, though, as if they had been afraid to curl together too closely. It had been an odd and pointed kind of space, a space that had seemed, after some consideration, to be just the right size for her.

Right then, everything had shifted into focus, and without a second thought she had climbed into Ron's bed and wormed her way between them.

When Harry opened and eye and started to speak, she had kissed him into silence, and it had been everything she had dreamed about, the dreams she had been unwilling to admit to herself. When Ron made a strangled, flabbergasted noise behind her, she had shifted so she could kiss him too, and it had been no less perfect than kissing Harry.

She had found, a bit after that, that watching them kiss was just as breathtaking than kissing them, herself.

Hermione knows what the other girls in school think about her, and what Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode say about her. They think she is selfish and spoilt to keep two boys for herself, and she had endured more than a few unkind words from Slytherins and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs alike.

She doesn't care what they think, and pointedly ignores the veiled quips about her virtue. It doesn't matter what they say, because she knows fully well that if Pansy or Millicent or Hannah or Eloise were lucky enough to be loved by the best, most wonderful boys in the school, they would not bother wibbling about propriety.

She loves Harry and Ron both, equally and the same. Harry and Ron love her, and they love each other, as well. That's how it is, and that's how it always will be, and Hermione doesn't see the need for the three of them to be apart and miserable just to placate everyone else.

Harry sighs softly in his sleep, and shifts a bit closer to her. His hand leaves its perch on her shoulder and slides down her body to tangle with Ron's at her hip. Ron mumbles quietly and scoots a bit closer, as well, stretching the arm under Hermione's head so his fingers can meet with hers in Harry's hair.

Ron mumbles again, and the tone of his voice says he is partially awake. He releases Harry's hand, and he reaches out to trail his fingers over Harry's hip. Harry makes a sleepy noise in response, and his hand drifts up Hermione's body to cup one of her breasts lightly.

It's very early in the morning, Hermione can see thin, grey light peeping in through a tiny crack in the bed-hangings. She figures it is about half six, meaning she could get another hour and a half of sleep if she closed her eyes right now, but she knows there is little chance of that. Harry's hand has left her breast to move south, his thin fingers swirling around her navel before venturing between her legs, and Ron's lips are no longer resting against the back of her neck, but pressing against it purposefully.

Hermione gasps quietly as Harry's fingers find just the right spot, teasing it in just the way he knows will make her insane. She burrows further into Ron's embrace while pushing herself against Harry's hand, and Ron is there, holding her close, his strong arms wrapped tightly around her and his fingers toying with her nipples.

She opens her eyes, and sees them leaned over her body, kissing-- lost in each other's lips and tongues while touching and stroking her, and it's hot and beautiful and too perfect to be real.

But it is.


End file.
